


Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. -Henry IV, William Shakespeare

by orphan_account



Series: 101 Quotes [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Poetic, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2210565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apotheosis. Embellishment.<br/>Crimson crowns and the only royalty Sherlock obeys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. -Henry IV, William Shakespeare

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this and also happen to work in entertainment (yes, Graham Norton, I AM looking at you!), please, be so kind and do NOT use my work. I repeat, I do NOT give my consent for you to use this!  
> Also, if you are, by some weird coincidence, Moffat/Gatiss/Famous, do not read whatever I write. If you read this...close the page. Now. It's not too late yet. Because my writing is horrible and you will hate me. And yourself for reading.  
> Be kind, and do not share my work with cast or crew.

_Le roi est mort, vive le roi!_

 

James Moriarty dressed in white fur and red cloaks and a golden crown resting on his slicked back charcoal hair; it's the pinnacle of royal radiance and kingly grace.

Apotheosis. Embellishment. 

He who wears the crown is king. 

It touched the apex of Sherlock's heart; gold and silver lined it. Outlines redrawn, valves failing under the heavy pressure of noble metal. Tachycardia and ventricular fibrillation induced by dreams filled with the vision of Moriarty seated on his throne. 

And Sherlock wants to shrug it off and forget it. 

The nights spend underneath satin sheets.

The innocent but intended touches, lips bitten red; glistening with saliva that is not his own. Breath fracturing and raw cries into the dark. 

_"In a room of locked doors -"_

His mind palace. It's locked for everyone but him, sealed off from the outer world unless begged restricted entrance because needed. 

_"-he who holds the key-"_

And Moriarty holds the key, stole it with mere words and passive actions. Invaded his mind palace, his sanctuary. Polluted. Infested. Rooms filled with the presence of James Moriarty. Every little detail memorised, backed up, indelible. 

_"-is king-"_

Yes. Yes. Moriarty is a king. He radiates the distant royal charm that is to be found surrounding princes with blood running violet through their veins. The marvellous emanation belonging to Queens with heads held high and Kings bowing under the heavy weight of crowns. 

Moriarty is a true king, and he rules Sherlock like he's his own kingdom. 

_"-and honey, you should see me in a crown."_

He has. He did. He might never forget. The ellegance, the embodiment of pure sex seated on a thrown that's his to own. Crowned by his own greed and the want for power and more. Lusting after prevalence and might.

The only royalty Sherlock obeys.  

James Moriarty is the only true king Great Britain has ever known. 

Even on the roof of St. Barts. Looking over London like a king surveys his land. 

Even there, with the gun in his mouth, slender fingers pulling the trigger, he still looks like a king. A ruler. 

Even then, when the blood starts spreading out onto the dirty concrete floor and the smile on his face freezes forever. 

Apotheosis. Embellishment. 

_The King is dead!_

 

_Long live the King!_

 


End file.
